


The Milovice Incident

by GeorgePelant



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate History, Cold War, Eldritch, Lovecraftian, Lovecraftian Monster(s), Original Fiction, Spies, Česky | Czech
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 09:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11803416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeorgePelant/pseuds/GeorgePelant
Summary: A eldrich-horror story in the form of a collection of reports, journals, and transcripts.Contains: Violence, Body Horror, and slightly racist themes/characters (Roma)





	The Milovice Incident

**Article 1: Personal Logs of Dr. Boris Gannibal, PhD   (Translated from Russian)**

April 2nd, 1970

Today I received orders telling me I was to be stationed at Milovice Mládá Military Base, effective immediately. Where the fuck is that? It sounds Bohemian but it’s not any of the major cities. No details are given, so I don’t even know what I’m going to be working on.

 

On plane to Prague, transportation to Milovice awaiting me there. Another scientist is with me, Dr. Sokolov. It seems we will be working together. His field of study is biology, I cannot imagine what kind of work overlaps that with geology. He’s scrawny, and wears wire rimmed glasses. Looks to be about forty or so, but has grey hair that’s thinning fast and a face that looks like it’s always just told a joke no one’s laughed at. It’s pitiful.  

 

It’s sixteen minutes past midnight. Gunfire from outskirts of town. Persisted for approximately a half hour. Long bursts of sustained automatic fire. Appeared one-sided. Too tired to write more now.

 

 

April 3rd, 1970

Today I was introduced to the Commander of the base, Captain something-or-other. I’ve known him for less than two minutes and I already can’t stand him. One of those pompous military assholes who can’t go five seconds without praising the motherland with a moustache that looks like a nest for the world’s smallest rat. It looks like his uniform and all the pea soup stains upon it have been handed down through the generations. I was also shown the reason for my presence here: a strange new rock sample unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. I’d say it’s maybe a quarter of a square meter, irregular but roughly teardropped in shape, with a pronounced hump along it’s top and bottom with sloping edges, like a solidified dollop of molten lead.

Texture is smooth overall, but with strange ridges throughout, reminiscent of an ocean wave. It’s off-white in color, almost like bone. There is strange symbol on the bottom. It’s not carved, or scratched, or anything that would suggest the symbol had been etched in; it’s mostly smooth, some ragged edges, with a perfectly uniform depth, almost as if it cracked as it cooled. How that could happen is beyond me, besides use of a mold, but it shows no signs of being casted.

According to the report I was given, all signs point to it being natural in origin and formation which I simply don’t understand, but that line of questioning is simply above my pay grade. I’ve begun tests, but a large percentage of the proper equipment is not available for one reason or another due to some bureaucrat who can’t pull his cock out of his ass. I can’t even get a microscope until next week. Pathetic. I’ve been forced to rely on more primitive methods. It’s metamorphic, I can tell that much, and reacts strongly to acid. It contains carbon, then. Further testing reveals a high presence of tricalcium phosphate, which almost suggests it’s organic in nature.  It has a reading on the Mohs scale of between five and six, and a density of 3,371 kg/m3 . It lacks any ability to conduct electricity and proves fireproof, but is slightly magnetic. Any ferrous object I hold up to it sticks to it, but the adhesive force isn’t terrible strong. I’m not sure what else I can do, I’ve pretty much exhausted all options until I get some more goddamn equipment.

 

 

April 4th, 1970

Came into the lab today to find the table holding the sample completely wet and beginning to rust. It appears that whatever this is, it seems to condense water. I’m going back to bed, woke up with a splitting headache. For the first time I since I was a child, I was plagued with horrible nightmares. I dreamt of a great topaz sea, a blue crystalline expanse stretching out to infinity, terrifying in its depth. In it’s bottomless facets I saw things I was never meant to know, forbidden knowledge which my brain violently removed before further damage could occur.

**Article 2: Partial transcript of the interrogation of Besnik Angres, shepherd, by Private Ivanov [Translated]**

March 29th, 1970

[Private Ivanov]: You said you were herding your sheep with your dog. What happened then?

[Besnik Angres]: I told you, I had my dog, Fíku, with me. He was a little old, deaf in one ear too, but he was alright.

[P.I.]: Was?

[B.A.]: I’m getting to that.

[P.I.]: What happened to him?

[B.A.]: I’m getting to that! (sigh) I led the sheep into a clearing, it was over in the forest a little bit west of here. There’s not a lot of wolves or whatever over there. All of a sudden, Fíku gets this look, like when someone’s about to give him a treat, and he just heads off. He just heads off. I try to call him back, but he just kept going. It gave me a chill. Maybe a hundred, hundred fifty meters it was. Straight line. No sniffing around or nothing. There’s this cave and he walks right in. No hesitation. And he used to be really jumpy, he’d never sit still. I step into the cave and...my god. The smell. Like rotting meat, and burning plastic, and bad yogurt, and...sulfur? I don’t know.

[P.I.]: What did you see?   

[B.A.]: Bitch, it was a cave. It was dark. Whoa whoa whoa, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Don’t hurt me!

[P.I.]: What did you see?

[B.A.]: Alright, alright, calm down. I couldn’t see anything, so I took my lighter so I had a little light. It wasn’t much. I heard Fíku up ahead, his nails clicking on the stone floor. But then I didn’t hear him anymore. The smell somehow got worse, if that was possible. Then I guess I must have lost my footing and fell into...something. I don’t know what it was, I dropped my lighter when I fell. It must’ve been whatever was making that smell, because suddenly it was overpowering and I felt wet all over. I guess I must’ve passed out from the smell or from hitting my head, because the next thing I know I wake up in a cell here.   

[P.I.]: What else do you remember?

[B.A.]: Nothing! I’ve told you all I know!

[P.I.]: Does the word ‘predator’ mean anything to you?

[B.A.]: What?

[P.I.]: Predator.

[B.A.]: N-no...I don’t know what you’re talking about. But...

[P.I.]: Your nose is bleeding.

[B.A.]: Oh. you’re right. That’s…

[P.I.]: Get up.

[P.I.]: I said, get up!

[P.I.]: Get the fuck up, you filthy gypsy sheepfucker!

 

**Article 3 Case Notes of Dr. Konev, PhD, concerning Besnik Angres**

April 3rd, 1970

I don’t know why I’m here. I’m a biologist, not a damn doctor. You can’t expect me to nurse the poor gypsy bastard back to health. I have the feeling I’m not supposed to. It turns my stomach.  I’m not even sure what he’s suffering from. He’s suffering, there is no doubt, but I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t think the medical officers have either, so he might be fucked no matter what I do. I supposed I have to try. His forearms are all torn up, self inflicted. He was damn near tearing the skin off his arms when the soldiers found him, clutching that piece of rock. I’m a man of science, don’t get me wrong, but that thing has dark juju, as I suppose Mr. Angres would say. I have a bad feeling about it. They beat him with their rifles, either to get him to give them the rock or to stop his yammering about the wolves or his dog or whatever, or maybe just because he was a gypsy who couldn’t or wouldn’t run fast enough. He’s in a bad way, broken leg, cracked ribs, bruises all over. And that’s not even touching whatever sickness he’s contracted in that cave. He seems to be alright mentally, at least for now. A little distant. I suppose that’s to be expected, with all he’s been through. Whatever made him pass out yesterday in the interrogation room doesn’t seem to be bothering him, at least not right now. He keeps complaining that he forgot something, something important. In his words, “like something reached in and ripped your thoughts out.” He’s also reporting nightmares of being pulled down, being drowned, in a “blue crystal sea” by some unseen force. It seems to be just a nightmare, but I’ve made a note of it just in case. According to him, he’s fifteen. He’s severely malnourished. You can see his ribs. Whoever raised him probably had no knowledge of medicine, or nutrition, or simply doesn’t care. Or they couldn’t get him enough food. Probably both, being gypsies; wandering migrants almost universally reviled, written off as nothing more than pickpockets, petty thieves, and con artists. He’s got bad teeth. Then again, most are. Not a lot of food to go around, as long as I can remember. The cuts on his forearms are open, refusing to close, leaking some sort of black pus. The skin around the lacerations is black as well. He’s not reporting any pain; perhaps it is gangrene, but it’s been less than 36 hours. That simply doesn’t make sense. It’s likely some new illness. I’ve placed him in quarantine, or course. In addition, I’ve taken to wearing a mask and gloves. Due to lack of proper equipment, I’ve had to substitute thick woolen gloves and a gas mask, which does wonders for my bedside manner. I think he’s given up hope he’s going to make it through. He asked me to call it ‘Dying Gypsy Syndrome’. He’s fifteen. My little Valeriya turned that just last month. I missed her birthday. Because I was working. Makes you wonder, you know? How life slips by when you don’t notice. I’m trying not to notice him looking over at me with those eyes of his. It’s not the dark circles around them, making him look skulllike, or their vacant look. It’s the pupils. God, those pupils. Pupils are supposed to be round. Not...not round. Growing outward like blood seeping from a gunshot wound, oozing.

 

April 6th, 1970

The condition of his eyes has continued to deteriorate. Unsurprisingly, his eyesight has worsened as it progressed starting in his left eye, his right joining not long after. His left eye is completely blacked out, and the other doesn’t have much time left. His mental state seems to be deteriorating in tandem with his eyesight, he keeps muttering to himself about “The Topaz Sea”.  
He doesn’t seem to notice me. He’s rocking back and forth, gently slamming himself against the walls, the door, not unlike victims of shell shock. As time went on, he seemed to become increasingly unhinged, violent almost. At that point the soldiers took him away, beating him down with batons before dragging him off. I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.

 

**Article 4 Radio transmissions intercepted by British Intelligence Agents (Translated)**

April 23rd, 1970, approximately 2130 hours

“This is Motorized Patrol Fyodor-6, beginning patrol.”

“Roger that Fyodor-6, over and out.”

[Silence]

“HQ, this is Fyodor-6, our dogs are smelling something, over.”

“HQ to Fyodor-6, do you have hostile contact?”

“Negative HQ, no contact. Could be nothing.”

“Understood Fyodor-6, stay safe out there.”

[Silence]

“HQ, I don’t think we’re alone. The dogs [static]”

“Fyodor-6, repeat your last.”

“Fyodor-6, come in.”

“Fyodor-6, please respond.”

“HQ, this is Fyodor-6, hostile contact, I repeat, hostile contact! They’re everywhere! [Gunshots]”

“Fyodor-6, please report.”

“Fuck off, HQ! [Gunshots] Shit, the other car is down, I don’t see any infantry either. They’re all dead, the bastards.”

“HQ, this is Fyodor-6, I need mortar fire on my flare, incendiary! [Gunshot]”

“Roger that Fyodor-6, I see your flare.”

 “Fyodor-6, are you there?”

“Fyodor-6, please respond.”

“Fyodor-6, respond!”

**Article 5 Field notes of Dr. Boris Gannibal**

April 24th, 1970

Massive amounts of gunfire last night, more than any night before. It was maybe 2330, maybe 2345. All of a sudden, massive gunfire. Machine guns, rifles, shotguns. Then maybe ten, twenty seconds after it started, it started to falter, like an orchestra when the musicians finish tuning their instruments. Finally a flare lit up the sky, bright red, and after that came the mortars. They hammered the woods north of town, a heavy bombardment. I asked the soldiers what happened, but they just said it was a regular training exercise. I didn’t believe them, so I bribed one about 80 rubles. It seems that’s the going price for insubordination, because he had no trouble showing me where it happened. Once he did he hurried back, but wouldn’t say why. As I approached I saw the bombed out husks of a UAZ-469 truck and a halftrack, both surrounded by charred corpses. Spent casings and magazines everywhere, along with the corpses. All of the bodies around the vehicles, what I assume was the infantry support, were torn limb from limb. At first I thought they were blown apart in the bombardment, but on examining them it appears they were dismembered before the mortars fell. The corpses had ragged lacerations and scratches on their flesh and bones, like they were attacked by some wild animal. There were charred bones scattered about, which I originally thought were from the soldiers, as they were far too twisted to come from any natural body. Some of the skeletons seemed animal, some humanoid. Not human, there was no way they could be human, but humanoid. It was if you melted bones until they were soft, then handed them to a toddler who pulled and twisted them until they looked like something that looks like a creature. There seemed to be two types, one both ursine and lupine in form, the other humanoid, hunchbacked, with long claws and fangs. Nothing remained of them but charred bones, almost as if their flesh burned with greater intensity than that of a human. Even their bones crumbled into powder when I brushed against them trying to examine the truck. The top half of rear machine gunner slumped against the interior of the bed. A second soldier lay inside, and I’m still not sure which body was in worse condition. The driver had been pulled through the shattered, blood splattered windscreen. A machine pistol was clutched in his one remaining hand, not that it seemed to do him any good. The crew of the halftrack didn’t make it either. It’s armor was covered in claw marks, deep scratches in the steel underneath the soot. Still, I held out hope that the driver was still alive. The cabin seemed intact aside from a large dark bloodstain on the right door, an umber teardrop that pointed to a severed arm on the ground, still in the sleeve of it’s uniform, flesh and cloth both charred. The hand was missing two fingers, the remaining digits wrapped tight around a spent flare gun. That confirmed my suspicions. But why would they shell their own convoy? Was it a last-ditch effort against being completely surrounded and overrun? I hammered on the door, but no response. There were no windows, just slits in the armor for me to peer through. The passenger, apparently the radioman, was slumped over. It looked like he bled out from his severed arm. The driver was laid over the wheel, the back of his head blown out. Self-inflicted. It was then that I heard shuffling behind me. There was a figure coming towards me from the forest, maybe thirty meters away. At first I saw it’s tattered shirt, vest, and trousers and mistook it for a gypsy. Then I saw the black, diseased flesh tearing through the cloth, the claws at the ends of dangling arms, much too long for it’s body, the misshapen skull with two black eyes above a jaw that was unhinged like a snake. It--and I’m certain it was an ‘it’, that thing wasn’t human--let out a rattling cry, like the last breath of a dying man, and charged. I shot it five times in the chest with my pistol, but that didn’t faze it at all. It just kept coming. My sixth went wide, filling the air with splinters where it hit a tree. The seventh hit it in the neck, inky blood spraying out. The eighth impacted at the base of its right eye socket, taking bone and brain matter with it as the slide locked back empty. The creature took a few staggering, drunken steps and collapsed, onyx ichor pooling beneath it. I reloaded, of course, but it seemed that whatever it was, it was alone. I took a quick look at it, the body was heavily diseased, mutated even. The eye was black, the pupil spilling over, engulfing everything.            

**Article 8: Notes of Captain Petrov, Department of Biological Warfare**

April 26th, 1970

Our expeditions into the cave systems have been met with resounding success, as have our experiments. We now have a number of artifacts in our possession, the result of further exploration into the underground structures. They’re quite fascinating, really. We don’t have the full picture-- landslides have severely damaged significant portions of the tunnel network--but what remains is a thing of beauty. The tunnel walls are remarkably well finished for hewn stone, with circular inscriptions carved into the walls. According to reports, there are a series of paths branching off from a central hub where the most notable artifacts were found. That’s not in any way to disparage the discoveries found in the other sections; the ancient tools and mechanisms, dining and sleeping areas, the structures found at the outskirts, petrified wood in the shape of one-armed crucifixes. Strange skeletons were found at their base, Neanderthal in nature, with arms nearly as tall as the legs and torso put together, concluding in hands with six long, tapered fingers. Head to toe they measure around 250 centimeters tall, far above the men. The skulls have a flat face, with thick, jutting brows above enlarged eye sockets. There’s a strange ridge on the dorsal side, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The biologist, Sokolov, is similarly baffled. He’s particularly interested in it’s neurocranium, the brain-case, saying it’s extraordinarily large. His hypothesis is that these creatures are from the beginning of humankind, when the ancestral tree split off leaving the lesser species to die, around 4,000 years ago. Let him have his fun, it’s none of my concern. My business concerns what was found in the largest chamber; more of the specimens found by that gypsy. Unlike the initial specimen, (Henceforward referred to as Subject Anton) these additional specimens have rough edges, almost as they were a larger piece that broke or shattered. They seem to fit together, but not well, like a broken piece of wood. If you put them all together you’d have a misshapen mound, perhaps a meter high, perhaps three meters across. Each has a similar glyph upon it, one each, sometimes repeated multiple times upon the same specimen. The soldiers who had contact with the specimens have started to report the same symptoms the geologist, Dr. Gannibal, suffered at the beginning of his exposure to them. Nightmares, fainting spells, alternating bouts of insomnia and narcolepsy. They’ve been placed on rest duty, at least for the time being. Speaking of Gannibal, his…altered mental state seems to have give him some knowledge of what occurred here. He says that long ago, a race of ancient inhuman beings, the Alran, made contact with beings from higher planes. It appears some sort of ascension took place, as some Alrimites were left behind, abandoned and alone, given no other choice but to attempt to reconvene with these Great Ancients. These Ancients are enticed by signs of higher thought, despite their unsympathetic nature. And so the abandoned Alrimites, in desperation, secured themselves to the one-armed crucifixes found in the cave in hope that the resulting right triangle would be proof enough of intelligence worthy of coaxing back the Great Ancients. Evidently, it was not. I would dismiss it as nonsense, if not for the fact that there was no way for him to know of the expedition, yet he knew of it anyway. Just what I needed, on top of everything else. The soldiers which were exposed to the sludge within the cave needed to be quarantined, it is too late for them anyway. Better to sedate them than have them conscious and lucid. A small mercy, I suppose. Soon enough they’ll be like that gypsy; bowed legs, hunched back, arms twisted and pulled until they hang down at the knees, fingers elongating as the bone pushes through gangrenous flesh, forming claws like knives. I am no coward. I am a patriot, and I will follow my orders to my own death for the sake of the Motherland. I am no coward. But those things, with their jaws hanging open, sharpened teeth in rows like a shark, eyes blackened and filled with blood, darkness flowing from bulging eye sockets like cracks in a dam...they make me uneasy. And we know for a fact that gypsies had been getting into the cave before we found it, soldiers encountering their twisted forms on patrol. Of course, the Red Army is no stranger to the use of overwhelming firepower. Kill them all on sight.  

                 

**Article 9: Interview of Dr. Boris Gannibal, PhD**

April 27th, 1970

_[The doctor seems to have misunderstood the purpose of his chair, electing to squat upon the table instead. His hair has begun to turn white and fall out in clumps, his skin blotchy, his eyes overflowing from their sockets, staring out lidless, unblinking. Still, he turns as I enter the room]_

_“Hello.”_

[Grunt]

_“Can you see me? How many fingers am I holding up?”_

“Oh, I can see you, I do, I do. But it doesn’t matter.”

_“How?”_

[Shrug] “I do, yes I do. Now, I think you have questions, yes? I know you do.”

_“How did you know?”_

“I know, oh, how I know. You bring me another Brother, yes? Or perhaps even a Sister? You need to know what they say, you want to know!”

_[Sigh.] “I do.”_

_[I hand him Subject Boris]_

“Oh, oh joy! The stars and atoms smile! A Sister, oh yes, a Sister! A good Sister, yes, not like that naughty Brother. You belong here, not like him. He should have been left behind. He did not deserve the Truth, he stole it!”

_“Who is this ‘brother’?”_

“The other one, the one you brought me earlier, the one who gave me Eyes, those Eyes that writhe and writhe inside my head! You call him ‘Predator’, you do. This one means ‘Eye’.” That evil Brother, Predator, Anjick, whatever his name, was unworthy, defiling the knowledge of The Topaz Sea with his presence! And so he remains accursed, incomplete, the rune ‘Predator’ upon his petrified flesh.”

_“So these runes, you can read them?”_

“More or less, more less than more, heh. Our mouths are deformed and twisted, they are, and our ears were not meant to listen to such inhuman utterances.”

_“Then how did you know that other one meant ‘Predator’?_

“I knew, I knew, I did.”

_“But how did you know?”_

_[He begins to rock back and forth]_

“I knew, I knew, like I always had. But I didn’t. I had forgotten it. We all have, we pygmies, the molding cancer of man. But the Brother, he showed me what I forgot, tearing the facade away when the Truth tore itself from my skull. I didn’t remember all at once, oh no, my mind was too small, too small. It still is, heh. Every time the Truth rips free, it leaves a little bit of itself behind, it does. The great Truth, transcendental, endless, a bottomless sea, is not meant for human comprehension.”

_“You keep going on and on about this ‘Truth’. What is it?”_

“You will never know! At least not yet. You have eyes, yes, but they are a most evil sort, operating only on the basest of planes. Unseeing, rotten, unworthy! The truth is wisdom, but not from here, no. They, the Brothers and Sisters, they Know! They found Them, made contact, and they transcended, they ascended as they descended into The Topaz Sea! They found the Truth! Well, most of them…”

_“Most of them?”_

“The foolish ones, brains rotten, driving themselves aft, they didn’t want to know! They refused to learn! Although, that was not such a terrible idea, perhaps...perhaps…per-”

[He slumps over]

_“Bastard, he’s fainted again. We’ll try again when he wakes up. We’re done here.”_

**Article 10: Journal of** **Dr. Konev, PhD**

April 29th, 1970

The experiments are getting out of hand. The soldiers who were exposed to the black sludge have completely transformed into what their comrades have dubbed “Gypsy Wolves” as the first victims were the nomadic Romanians in the forest outside the town, falling upon patrols in great packs. Their flesh is black with disease, with long lanky arms. Their posture and locomotion is bipedal, but reluctant, like a dog rearing up on it’s hind legs. The fresh ones still have their eyes, sockets and tear ducts flooded with inky ichor above unhinged jaws. The elders, those in which the infection has progressed even further, have done away with eyes--or a face, for that matter--altogether. Instead they simply have a gaping maw, twin tongues lolling about, tasting the air. It seems that this scrounge acts similar to a bloodborne infection, like rabies multiplied by one hundred. It seems that the ‘Predator’ rune causes an unnatural attraction in, well, predatory animals. The effect, without fail, results in the death of the animal, whose remains coalesce into a potent biohazard. Of course, Command has responded to this development by attempting to weaponize the rune, the sludge, the beasts, or all three, trucking in buses full of political purposes for this very purpose. It makes me sick, what humans can do to each other. There are things you simply should not know; secrets are secrets for a reason.  

 

            As abhorrent as it’s effects are, the ‘Predator’ rune gives me conniptions the least. It, at least, follows human logic. That Gannibal, or what part of him remains human, keeps feeding that Captain Petrov dark, eldritch truths. Or, as Gannibal would say, Truths. His madness reaches new heights with every rune he comes in contact with. At first he would simply faint after each exposure as, in his words, the Truth overwhelmed his mind. It seems that repeated exposure allowed him to build up an immunity, bits and pieces of the Truth staying lodged in his mind, to the detriment of every human being here. He’s given Petrov the tools to start experimentation, forcing his victims to withstand knowledge their minds were never meant to know, their bodies twisted by the wisdom of the Old Unclean Ones, the Great Ancients, whatever you want to call them. As a biologist, I’ve been charged with examining these unholy, once-human creatures; my work starts tomorrow. I shudder to even think about it; I hear their inhuman cries through the concrete walls. If the Gypsy Wolves were once human, then it stands to reason that whatever creatures I hear were also once human. If a person could transmutate into such monsters, then what evil dregs lie within humanity?  

 

April 30th, 1970

Today I was forced to witness the product of Konev’s work. They’re not human anymore, only approaching human form, to varying degrees and with varying success. Natural beings degenerating, deforming, twisting themselves into nightmare fauna. This batch of subjects are three males, and have completely lost their minds. All the human guinea pigs have been in contact with a rune for about twelve hours or so, according to Konev. He’s a sick bastard. These poor souls sit on the floor of their cell in the basement of the complex, rocking gently back and forth on the damp concrete with their face in their hands. Even in the dim light, I could see that their skin had begun to take on a blue hue, as if they were suffering from hypothermia. When I examined them, however, they were burning with fever. What’s more, their hands seemed to be fused to their face, like two pieces of glass welded together. A muffled, ragged sobbing sounded continuously from them. They still seem human. Normal heartbeat, normal breathing. I wonder for how long.

 

The second batch of subjects are exhibiting even greater mutations, even after the same amount of time. Maybe some of the runes are more powerful? I should ask Gannibal. Not Dr. Gannibal, just Gannibal. He has no right to be called that when he’s like this. I’m not looking forward to it. But I digress. This second group are suffering from copse-gray skin, dry like it’s about to crumble into powder. It’s sagged around their bodies, draped over them like a blanket over their hunched backs, their arms dangling, their hands clenched into claws; the thumb lengthening, fore and middle fingers growing together, ring and little fingers fusing. They’re much more aggressive as well, stalking back and forth in the cell. Occasionally they’ll throw themselves against the bars, snarling like a dog, mouth twisted in rictus, yellow canine teeth bared. When they begrudgingly accept they can’t get to me (yet?), they settle for glaring through the bars at myself or the other subjects. It’s all you can see under the folds of their skin. There’s no way I can get close enough to them.

 

The last test subjects are an elderly couple. Were. Were an elderly couple. I don’t think they ever understood what was happening to them. When I got to them, they seemed dead to the world, snuggled up to each other, cradling that rock like a child. They were making a rhythmic humming, like they knew the tune of a lullaby but not the words. They didn’t seem to notice as I approached; maybe they were above such concerns. I tried to study their condition, but their skin has become…it’s started to melt, like a wax statue in an oven. I made the mistake of touching it, it stuck to my hand like melted cheese and burned like acid.

 

 

May 1st, 1970

Made it to the church. I think I’m safe. For now, at least. Need to board up the windows.

 

 

 

 

May 2nd, 1970

The church is secure, or as secure as it’s ever going to be. The experiments broke containment; a massive swarm of those wolf creatures swept in from the forest and descended upon the base. I escaped just in time, I was one of the lucky ones. I heard gunshots from within the complex, then screams, then inhuman cries as mobs of beasts burst forth like water from a breached dam, holding their runes aloft like unholy idols. There must’ve been more test subjects than the ones I saw. Many, many more. The whole town is overrun; the beasts roaming the streets, fighting each other for territory. I was with a small group of townsfolk, but I was the only one who made it to the church. The beasts outside seem to be the conclusion of Konev’s experiments, the final stage of this beastly scourge.

            The old Jewish quarter is overrun by Crying Eyes, strange shambling creatures almost pitiful in their appearance. Their skin has a strange violet hue, their heads clutched in their hands as if they were crying, hence the name. Eyes spill over their arms, their hands, giving their head a bubbled, cauliflower-like look. They look docile enough, but from the steeple I saw one attack a survivor who made a break for it. I saw it collapse as he approached, as if in submission or surrender. Then it’s back began to writhe and pulsate, erupting in midnight blue tentacular appendages, each tipped in a spatulate, sickle-like blade or clawed hand with fingers like knitting needles. I didn’t watch the rest. I’ve seen enough, far too much, these past few weeks, but I couldn’t stop myself from hearing his scream.  

 

They frequently clash with what the townspeople call Láms in the husks of the apartment buildings nearby. They have grey skin, and they walk hunched over, arms dangling, their three-fingered hands scraping the ground. The skin on their back and neck is loose, draped over them like a cloak, almost covering their bulging, swollen bellies, their head peeking out from underneath with wild, unblinking eyes. Their mouths are filled with yellow, bloodstained fangs, smiling with crazed, grim rictus as they twist their heads, necks corkscrewing until their muzzle lies vertical. They’re called Láms from the sound of their necks leaping forward, extending by a full meter or more, lunging towards their prey.

 

Worst of all are the Grandmothers, misshapen sluglike creatures off-white in color, anywhere between two and three meters in length, with a body like a severed pair of lips, bumps along it’s surface like a centipede. Their ‘head’ rears up maybe a half meter off the ground, home to a mass of antennae swaying back and forth. Along it’s flanks protrude slimy appendages with which it feels it’s way along, undulating like a worm, making sickening squelching noises. When attacking, it rears up and wraps it’s prey in a crushing embrace, it’s ribs exploding from it’s underside, impaling the target as a great maw opens on the underside of the creature, lined with great black teeth. They hug you close and don’t let go. The worst part is the sounds they make. Oh god, the sounds. A keen, echoing cry, just out of key. You can hear it echoing off the buildings, and it makes it impossible to sleep. And then it makes a happy little sigh, or hums quietly to itself, rocking back and forth contently. Whenever they catch sight of someone, or even another beast, they let out a sad, pitiful groan, a whimper, sometimes even a mewl, even as they advance forward to consume their prey with a shuddering moan. I spied two of them wrapping tentacles around each other, like they were embracing, swaying back and forth in unison, making happy little sounds. The elderly couple I saw must’ve become beasts like these, compassionate and bloodthirsty all at once. I hate them most of all. These beasts might have been human once, but no longer. But if a human being could turn into such a monstrous creature, then what darkness, what hidden inherent beasthood, lies dormant inside of man? And if humans do this to one another, are me much better?              

 

May 7th, 1970

It seems that there were still a few soldiers alive, a handful of flame troopers. The beasts have a unnatural fear of flame, and rightly so, but it still pales in comparison to their bloodlust. They were finally overrun, their last act to set of demolition charges, turning three apartment buildings to rubble. Now a raging firestorm has erupted, beasts burning alive, staggering through the streets like living candles. Is there no other way, than to burn it all to cinders?

 

May 8th, 1970

Most of the town is alight, filling the sky with clouds of thick, pungent smoke, black cloying dust coating everything. I can’t get the soot off me. I can’t get it off me, no matter how hard I try. I can’t get it off me.

 

May 9th, 1970  
Food is running low. I only have five or six cans of Tushonka left. I’ve always hated it. Stew belongs in a pot, not a can, but it’s all I’ve got. I still can’t get the soot off me.  

 

May 10th, 1970

There’s soot, thick and jet black, falling from the sky. The sky’s changed. It’s a deep blue, facetted like a crystal. The Topaz Sea.  It’s The Topaz Sea.

It’s beautiful.  

 

May ~~10th~~ ~~9th~~ ~~12th~~ 11th, 1970

The Sea is so beautiful. So beautiful, but I feel my brain is missing something. There are strange beasts skimming the surface of The Sea, on the cusp of the clouds. Wait, no, that’s not the word. That’s not the word. Bombers. Yes. That’s the word.

 


End file.
